Chapter 1: Smoke and Ashes

It was not sudden. If nothing else, Addison knows this; growing apart rather than growing together, and determining she is now married to a tangible ghost was a slow, unexpected progression. Possibly the disconnect started around the nine, nine-and-a-half-year mark, she thinks, but is not certain. And in any case, the exact moment she could feel Derek's indifference start to tumble in her direction does not matter.

It is Derek's actions that matter. The absence of his actions, really. The absence of him. He spends more time at the hospital than at home, more time sleeping in a rickety on-call room bed than burrowed next to her on their Italian sheets with taupe-swirling paisleys. The touches cease, the plans cease, the check-in text messages cease, and those three special words are rarely uttered, and when they are, they sound depressingly hollow.

Anniversaries and birthdays aren't forgotten, not exactly, but work-related conflicts occur and assurances they will make it up later by means of a Hamptons weekend or brown-bagging it on top of the Empire State Building never comes to fruition. Addison knows her frustration over special dates rocketing past them isn't quite fair because there are flowers or gifts from him (nothing that would require much thought though) on the days she considers important; however, coming downstairs to find paper-wrapped roses but not seeing the purchaser anywhere in the home makes the gesture less meaningful. And on the days and nights Derek is home, he might as well not be there. She kisses him softly, and lets her mouth linger against his when they're in bed, but most of the time he's just not interested. Too tired, early surgery tomorrow, long day, headache, waiting for an update from the on-call resident, not feeling so great. She at least has to give Derek some credit for scraping together different word variations each time for what she knows to be the real reason: I don't want to, Addison.

The emotional absence has crept in as well. He doesn't want to talk. Or listen. Conversation used to be easy. When they were dating, and during the first few years of their marriage, they could talk for hours about anything and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. Not anymore. The loneliness weighs heavy in her chest, sometimes forcing her to inhale more deeply than she normally would. And, not exactly a candidate for marital sainthood herself, Addison knows that she makes things worse sometimes by needling Derek just to bait him into an argument about something that isn't even the issue; however, existing in this non-fairytale for quite some time has taught her that acting calm and rational and sugary-sweet isn't doing shit. She hoped Derek might respond to her, display any sort of attentiveness on the occasions where her voice climbed up and her words became snarly and cruel, but that did not work either. Nothing works.

She has been trying very, very hard for at least a year now, if not longer; there are limitations to endurance though. Tolerating the distance and excuses is starting to hurt too much. She is busy and successful, just like him, perhaps even a bit more, but at least she is here and willing to do her part to help them claw their way out of the unhappiness that has become the fabric of their union. Counseling, she considers, is the logical next step, though they will certainly both hate it.

Monday. Brand new week. Side-by-side in the elevator, just the two of them, going up to their respective floors. Addison smiled when she caught up with him near the coffee cart, and he smiled back and said hello and gave her a perfunctory, quick peck on the cheek (she has started to resent this), but there is still no denying Derek's overall apathy when they step into the elevator. She asks a few questions about the emergency surgery last night that led to him sleeping at Bellevue, but then they slip into silence. Procedures and scalpels seem to be the only things that ensure there isn't total silence.

Addison glances at him hesitantly, trying to think of something to say. The desperation clings to her. She finds herself wondering, not for the first time, Is the problem that he's too busy to be with me anymore? Or is he too busy because he doesn't want to be with me anymore?

She twists at her engagement and wedding rings, an unhappy carousel looping round and round. She knows if she doesn't initiate the conversation, he probably won't speak. "I was thinking maybe we could go up to the Hamptons this weekend," she volunteers, privately deciding to give it a few more tension-filled, implosion-is-inevitable weeks before they sit side-by-side and volley accusations at one another in the presence of a marriage counselor. She watches Derek's jaw tighten as he tries to keep the frown from appearing on his face. "What do you think?"

"Addison…" he sighs.

"It's so nice up there this time of year. It could be fun, you know, to get away, relax, and maybe talk –"

"Oh God, here it comes."

"Here what comes?"

The elevator doors slice open just then, effectively hushing whatever snarky remark Derek was about to drop. Mark is standing on the other side, and grins when he sees his friends.

"Hey," he saunters in, and the Shepherds move over to make room. They return his greeting, and he catches the sullenness in Addison's voice.

Mark nudges her shoulder. "What's the matter with you?"

"You're just in time to try and interpret girl flip-out into normal conversation," Derek answers.

"Is that so?" Mark smiles at Addison, but she grimaces back.

"I'm just trying to get Derek to go to the Hamptons with me."

"Derek hates the Hamptons."

"That's not the point," she says, taking the time to properly glare at both men.

"What is the point?" They ask in unison.

"The point is we never talk anymore or spend meaningful time together. Derek, you're never home anymore."

"That's not true."

"Oh, really? Where have you slept the past two nights, Derek? And on a weekend too, for God sakes. You can't possibly be on-callevery night."

Derek tips his head towards Mark and clears his throat. "Addison, let's not have this conversation right now."

"When would you like to have it? This is the first time I've seen you since Friday. I actually have to go to work in order to spend time with my husband."

"You know I had a surgery that went late and –"

"You couldn't text or call?"

"Addie, come on..."

She keeps her voice steady and controlled, but continues to drive the conversation forward. "It's not a difficult concept. Pick up the phone. That would have saved me the trouble of cooking dinner and sitting there while the food got cold. Do you know how awful that was? Sitting alone, wondering when the hell –"

"Addison, stop."

"Because Mark's here? You've know him basically your entire life and I've known him for, like, 15 years. I think that makes arguing in front of him on occasion acceptable. Plus, it's not like he hasn't noticed your absence either."

"Addison…" they both begin at the same time, Derek for obvious reasons, and Mark because he would prefer not to be involved in this. I should have taken the stairs, he thinks. It's hard not to jump to Derek's defense, given that they're best friends, but Addison is a really good friend too, and she's not wrong in this situation. For the past year, dinners for the trio have needed just two place settings at least half the time; Derek is as non-existent as Addison is making him out to be. And although Addison can carry on a friendly and enjoyable conversation during two-person meals and does not usually discuss her marriage woes, it is not lost on Mark how deeply she tries to hide her frustration over shared take-out.

"Fine. If you won't talk to me, I'll just talk to Mark," she turns away from Derek, focusing her attention on the man to her left. Screw you, she thinks as she bristles at Derek's indifference, which ends up being the provocation that transitions Girl Flip-Out Mode into Petty, Not Appropriate Mode. It's hard to be mature about this though. She's tried that, and it doesn't work.

"Mark, do you know how long it's been since my husband and I have had sex?"

Derek groans, while Mark tries and fails to choke back a laugh. He wistfully thinks again of the non-accusatory stairwell.

"A month and two days," Addison continues, chancing another peek at Derek, who doesn't even have the decency to look particularly embarrassed or annoyed about the direction this discussion has fishtailed in; he simply looks tired. Done. "Besides, Derek, it's not like this topic bothers Mark. He's probably heading off to have sex with someone as we speak." She looks back at Mark for confirmation.

"No, I actually have to go follow up on a skin flap issue," he replies. "And, surprisingly, that's not a euphemism. But I appreciate your confidence in me, Addison. It means a lot," he adds with a playful smirk, which at least makes a hint of a smile unfurl across her face. It makes him smile back.

They rumble to a stop and the elevator doors glide open. "This is my floor," Derek mutters. "See you guys later."

"So, I'm assuming no to the Hamptons, but should I make dinner? Define 'later,' Derek," she says to his retreating figure. He calls back something over his shoulder about being on-call tonight (which she assumes is a lie) and they can talk later. He doesn't look back. "He's getting good at that lately," Addison says as the doors close again.

"What's that?" Mark asks.

"Walking away."

She's right. He watches as Addison lowers her face and kneads the skin between her eyebrows. He almost reaches out to squeeze her shoulder in commiseration, but decides against it.

"What are you making for dinner tonight?" He asks. "I can come over. Or we can just do take-out. Chinese or something?"

"I feel like we just did that…" she grumbles, then briefly loses her train of thought. "I can't remember what day, and of course I can't ask Derek, because he made some excuse and didn't show."

"Yeah, and then you had the misfortune of being stuck with me for an evening. Come on though," he nudges her shoulder again. "You look like you could use a friend. I'll come over. What time?"

"Mark..."

"I'll bring a movie. Oh, and alcohol, because you look like you could use that too. So what time?"

Addison tries to conceal a pleased smile as they reach Mark's floor. "Don't you have anything better to do tonight? Or more accurately, someone to do tonight?"

He rolls his eyes and repeats himself. "What time, Addison?"

"Fiiiiine. Seven. Oh, and no need to bother with alcohol. I'm in a crappy marriage at the moment and I'm not having sex, so obviously there's no shortage of booze in the house. Thank you though," she murmurs, trying to make sure the gratitude in her tone spreads over the irritation she feels towards her husband. Mark nods in response, and Addison really does smile this time, appreciating that when he is several strides out of the elevator, he looks back and offers a grin and quick wave of his hand. Now that, Derek, she thinks, is what it looks and feels like to be noticed.

"I brought Thai," Mark says when Addison opens the arched double front door to find him on the porch holding a takeout bag. An overcast sky is threatening rain behind him. He waits until she notices that his other arm is tucked behind his back and clearly hiding something, and when she does raise a questioning eyebrow, he swings his arm around to present her with a tiny, messy bundle of purple geraniums.

Addison narrows her eyes suspiciously. The flowers, while lovely if not a tad droopy, strike her as familiar; the arrangement lacks the neat precision of something store-bought and nothing appears to be binding the stems together. "Mark, did you steal those from my neighbor's window box?"

His mischievous grin is all the confirmation she needs. "Hey," he shrugs defensively. "It's supposed to be the thought that counts, and I did give it some thought first."

"Well, it is thoughtful," Addison agrees, reaching out to take the flowers from him. Their fingers softly brush when the transfer occurs. She steps aside for Mark to enter, and he does so with a comfortable air that unfolds from having spent plenty of time in the brownstone and knowing his way around the first floor. "I'll find something to put the Lowell family's captive flowers in. You go ahead and get the silverware and pour some wine, or grab a beer if you'd rather have that. There's a Barolo by the fridge."

Once the slightly-sad-looking flowers are settled in a small vase, silverware and cartons of food are placed on the table, and two glasses of red wine are available for consumption, Mark pulls Addison's chair out for her. She thanks him as a look of surprise travels across her face. He notices.

"Quit underestimating me," he laughs. "I do have basic manners, Addison."

"I suppose that's true."

"You brought Die Hard?" Addison curls up on the couch and pouts in his general direction when she recognizes the opening credits. She lacks the motivation to go take the DVD out and comb through Netflix for something they can both tolerate, but definitely does what she can to convey her displeasure.

"What? It's basically a Christmas movie. And you love Christmas."

"You get points for at least trying to pull that off, but it is so not a Christmas movie…" she watches as Mark refills her glass. "And that is a huge pour, Mark. Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I'm not trying to do anything," he laughs, and although he truly didn't mean to fill her second glass as high as he did, the smile gracing Addison's lips indicates she doesn't actually mind. "Hey," he raises his glass. "Here's to good friends."

Addison clinks her glass against his. "And shitty husbands," she adds.

Later in the evening, when thick raindrops land against the window panes and hover in trembling clusters, Mark hears a sniffling sound that pulls his attention away from the movie he's watching and Addison is half-watching.

"Hey," he says, looking at Addison. Her eyes have gone pearly with tears. "You're crying."

"No, I'm about to cry. There's a difference."

"Okay, so you're about to cry. And I'm guessing it's not tears of joy because the movie is almost over," he waits, but she doesn't say anything. Mark kicks out of his shoes, and then scoots closer and angles himself towards her. She sighs in response, placing her nearly-empty wine glass on the shadow box coffee table and then mirroring his movements until their knees are lightly touching.

"You can talk about it if you want, Addie," he adds.

"It's nothing you don't already know. Well, I suspect you didn't know the exact amount of days I've gone without sex before this morning, but the rest of it is nothing new. He's never around, and on the rare instances he is around, he definitely isn't present. I want him to care, and it's so intensely clear that he doesn't," Addison inhales slowly, trying to maintain her composure. She considers that she shouldn't be talking about this, not with Mark. Choosing to lean on someone else is probably one of the telltale signs of a crumbling marriage. But Mark is here and listening. And the way he said Addie was just so gentle and sweet that the tears already beginning to seesaw on the curves of her eyelids are even closer to falling. He can be gruff, and usually is, but he can also be thoughtful at times, especially to her. Mark reaches out to squeeze her hand just then, and surprises them both when he doesn't let go.

"I need to just stop expecting things from him and from this marriage," she continues. "Then I'll stop feeling so disappointed."

Mark offers a low whistle. "That is…pretty bleak."

"Yes. It is." She stops trying to muscle through the pain, and when he moves his arm up a bit, indicating there's a hug available for her if she wants it, she pushes closer so that she's settled against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says, dropping a swift kiss on top of her head. "I don't know what else to say. He's an idiot. I can talk to him if you want, but I don't know if that would help."

"He doesn't love me anymore."

Mark sighs. "I'm sure that's not true, Addison."

"It is true," she says quietly. "I've tried so freaking hard, but he doesn't want me anymore – not just physically, but in all the ways. I know there isn't anyone else, and this is so messed up, but I wish there was a dirty mistress, because at least that's something I could try to make sense of. It's just me though. I think he still loves me, but he's not in love with me, Mark. He might not recognize that, but I do. He doesn't hate me, but he's indifferent, and somehow that's worse than being hated…it just breaks my heart. I keep thinking there has to be a reason that only involves him and who he is, but I've come up empty for so long, which makes me think that I have to be the reason…" Addison shakes her head and swipes her thumb along her cheekbone to wipe away a tear. "Is it me, Mark? Am I doing something wrong? God, am I just…not enough anymore?"

"No. It's not you," he insists, placing his thumb and index finger on either side of her face and dragging them down along her jawbone. His fingers on her skin stirs something in her. "It's not. You're enough, Addison. More than enough. You always have been."

Mark wraps his other arm around her, holding her against him. Addison knows it's meant to be platonic and she can't pinpoint anything earlier in the evening that makes this time Different, but she wriggles around in Mark's embrace anyway and tilts her face up, gently pressing her mouth to his. Her hands trace over the contours of his cheeks and settle on his shoulders.

"Addison," he pulls back before the kiss deepens, but only pulls back a little. She can tell without Mark saying anything that it's not because he wants to stop, but he's at least giving her the opportunity to determine if she does. She could take the out. It could be just this, and they could never mention it again. Quiet follows. He can feel her breath carrying across his face, feather-soft, and she watches his marble-blue eyes dart back and forth from her eyes to her parted lips. Saying anything else in this moment would just be uninspired and predictable. They both know, obviously, that this is wrong.

Addison lifts her head up and down just slightly, just enough for him to notice, just enough for him to understand yes this should not happen but yes this is going to happen, and then kisses him again. It's slow and tender at first, but once hands start mapping over skin, they both need more.

"Upstairs…bedroom…" Addison mumbles against his mouth in between kisses. He tips his forehead to hers, shoulders rising and fall as they both breathe heavily. "Please," she tacks on, not out of desperation (or maybe just a little), but because of the absolute conviction that she wants this to happen, needs this to happen. Nothing else in this moment, including the marriage she has wanted to revive, seems to matter.

Mark kisses her again and pulls her up off the couch, hands trailing down the beads of her spine. He slips his tongue into her mouth, earning a quiet moan, and walks her backwards out of the living room and up the stairs. There is a lot of stumbling and pausing and adjusting as they make their ascent, but their hands don't stop moving over each other. Addison coaxes his leather jacket off his broad shoulders about halfway up, and his hands are buried under her wrap top by the time they reach the bedroom. Her marital bedroom, Addison thinks as she nudges the door shut behind them, but then she forces herself to stop thinking and to just be in this moment.

The only thing that ultimately matters is what happens later, when he is settled on top of her and they are actually in the throes. It is a bit frantic; there is a rushed urgency to their bodies pushing against one another, but it still feels incredible, and Addison suspects it would feel this incredible even if she wasn't completely and utterly sex-deprived. She's becoming more breathless now, exhaling in tiny pants, and knows that she's close, so close, but her concentration on the man moving above her is broken when she hears the unmistakable sound of the bedroom door swinging open.